In the Wrong Hands
by Found-Familiar
Summary: Fi is emotionless for a reason. She was not the first sword that the goddess Hylia tried to create. (This will be four parts in total.)
1. The Goddess' Sword

The heat of the forge would have been unbearable to human skin. Even the visitor found the stifling space unpleasant. The air was souplike as she passed a hand through it to tuck a strand of her own hair behind a tapering ear. She was forced to hunch over to avoid bringing the too-low ceiling down on both of them. Her stare remained fixed on a statuette carved into the opposite wall, avoiding the smith because she knew how she bothered him. Though far from docile, Gorons were a peaceful race, and even this most skilled of weapon-crafters would rather have left the war behind with his brothers. He had, after all, a home to rebuild, and a long life still to live. The visitor knew this, but she had no other choice.

With a hesitation uncharacteristic of his proud heritage, the smith presented his masterpiece to his guest. It was little more than a fruit knife in his hands and less than a razor in hers, but a human hero would never meet a finer sword. Though somewhat plain in design, the blade was elegant, light, and balanced.

Its creator ran rough fingers along its surface, tracing the curve of its bold edge. "Your Grace, this weapon is my pride and joy. Whatever you mean to do with it..." Here he dared to meet her gaze, squaring his mighty shoulders as his confidence returned to him. "...please treat it kindly." Not without difficulty, he lowered himself to one knee and relinquished the sword. "My brothers and I will never forget everything you have done for us."

Cradling the blade on one hand, she placed the other on his shoulder. He relaxed, an expression of dazed awe drifting across his face. Relief and gratitude seeped through his craggy shell from her fingertips, and when she withdrew, he wore a smile to match her own.

"Thank you," she murmured. "You have my protection, now and forever." The heat clung to her sweeping skirts as she backed out of the forge, careful not to brush against the doorway. The twilight silhouetted her against the mountain, but even drawn to her full height, she was not as imposing as she once had been. Limping out of view, she braced herself against the cliffside and peeled away her dress. Silver beaded at the edges of the half-closed gashes crossing her torso, the damaged surrounding tissue black and crumbling like overcooked meat.

She could almost hear Demise's scorn ringing in her head; the demon was laughing at her. _You're dying, goddess._

Perhaps that was so, but she still had time and, more importantly, a task to fulfill. Hiding her wounds away once more, she tilted her head skyward and willed herself to return to the people she had raised above the clouds. She closed her eyes for only a moment, then opened them again upon stone walls. Cool, fresh air and daylight leaked through thin cracks in the otherwise smooth foundation. Even from the safety of her statue, she could feel the energy of the souls flitting around the island outside. The hope in their fragile human hearts lent the goddess a fresh surge of determination as she lay the sword before the pedestal in the center of the chamber. Her hands began to tremble as they hovered over the blade, and her features twisted into a grimace as her palms split and more of her silvery blood dripped onto the steel. It began to hum gently, and she mimicked the tone, coaxing it into a ballad that resonated with her own infinite spirit. Beyond the walls of the chamber, every life on the island stopped to catch the sound.

At length, the goddess' voice grew weak. She dropped her bleeding hands to her sides and fell silent, eyelids fluttering. As she tipped backwards, a silver shadow sprang from the divine blade, stretching wordlessly to cushion her fall.


	2. The Sword's Corruption

The sky was clear today. The sky was clear every day. Though Ghirahim had heard stories of heavy black storms that made humans beg for sunlight, he had never seen rain, and he was beginning to realize with an awful sinking sensation that perhaps he never would. He stalked past crowds of his mistress' subjects with his chin held high, but their wonderstruck stares made his skin crawl. A red potion in a crystal bottle was cradled against his chest; he focused on it rather than the spectators, impelled to deliver it while it was still warm.

He squeezed through the tiny gap excusing itself for a door to his mistress' statue, writhing on his belly like one of the humans' noisy, large-eared pets. The stone clipped against his shoulders, but he held the bottle firm. There was a faint stirring against the wall as the goddess turned her head to watch him stand and brush himself off. Hylia's might was dampened by a fevered mist that had no place in such a powerful being's eyes. Smiling, she extended a hand to take the potion. Some of the red liquid dribbled from her lips onto the front of her dress- so very careless of her. So very... human.

Ghirahim stretched out on the cold floor, tucking his hands behind his head and staring languidly at the ceiling. "We should furnish this place," he remarked. "It's dreadfully boring. No matter how skilled that potion maker is, you won't find healing in this drab environment, Your Grace."

" 'This drab environment' is safe. I would not taint its holy atmosphere with material goods from the outside world."

"With all due respect," the spirit began, with a slight curl of his lip, "you drip dark magic every time you so much as twitch a finger. Unless your idea of not tainting your beloved statue is imprisoning us all within its walls, it is far too late for that." Struck with a sudden jolt of passion, he braced his hands against the floor and launched himself to his feet. "Your Grace, you created me to protect your people, did you not? Surely the best way to do so is to keep their idol among them. Let me go to the surface and find a cure for your wounds."

"Ghirahim, you are not strong enough to explore the surface. What if-"

He sprang to interrupt her, surprising even himself: "I am the most powerful weapon in the universe created by the gods of old. You gave me a piece of your own soul."

"Ghirahim-"

"How, then, can I not be strong enough for _anything_?" His fingers had curled into fists; he forced them to unclench and snapped, scattering glittering illusions of diamonds as he transported himself to perch atop one of the chamber's stone pillars. Now sitting at eye level with Hylia, he flexed one arm, letting sparks dance around his hand. "I am _perfect_."

"That is enough." Strained though it was, the goddess' voice froze him, snapping his jaw shut. "Your vanity has blinded you to your purpose." Her face twisted in and out of nonsensical expressions, trying to summon anger that she could not possess. "You... are not an adventurer. You are a guardian. No concoction- not here, not on the surface- can do more than ease my pain and postpone the inevitable. You are to remain at my side until my time is over, and then you will wait in this chamber for my human hero to arrive. Do you understand?"

She spoke to him like he was a child, so full of sickening pity. The feeling of dread began to creep over him again. He slunk back to the ground, twisting his fingers together in front of him.

"Of course," he said, drawing out the sharp "s" at the end. "How foolish of me to think that your _divine power_ could assist me in saving your life."

"I am sorry," Hylia faltered. She reached toward him, but he flickered away, reappearing far out of reach. Her hand dropped, limp, back into her lap. She bowed her head. "Ghirahim, there is a greater good which we must consider. You did not see the war, so you cannot know what terror it brought my people."

"And I never will, it seems," Ghirahim retorted. He saw his mistress clutch at her chest and grimace, and for a moment, he almost yielded. Ears drooping, he crept forward to sit on his pedestal.

Sensing his hesitation, Hylia continued: "I wish I could promise you as much. If Demise breaks free, this hard-won peace may very well mean nothing. Then you will have the conflict you seem to covet." She paused, closing her eyes and drawing a breath that shuddered throughout the chamber. "Glorifying bloodshed is a human weakness. Remember that."

"I am not glorifying bloodshed." Ghirahim was bristling again, his conscience forgotten. The sensation began to drain away from his tightly entangled fingers. "It is freedom that you deny me. You expect me to rot in this statue, waiting for a hero that might never come so that they can defend a world that I have never seen." He flung himself onto his back like an impudent child. "I will obey, of course, he sneered. "I am forever Her Grace's loyal dog."

There was no answer to this, no further righteous anger or motherly condescension. Both parties sat wordless, listening to the ragged breathing of a dying goddess and a spirit with a shadow cast over his heart. At length, however, Hylia did dare to speak, and her voice was as low and as smooth as blood leaking from a wound.

"Do you hate me, Ghirahim?"

Ghirahim merely bit his tongue and rolled over. There was no answer to this either.


	3. The Corrupted's Betrayal

The stolen cloak was heavy on Ghirahim's back, but it was not the only weight that concerned him. His shoulders ached as if he had been hauling buckets of water for hours; he could neither rationalize nor relieve the feeling. He felt every pebble that rolled beneath his feet. If he truly was as determined as he told himself, then why did he jump like a startled animal each time he felt the wind shift?

None of this was his fault. Hylia was an old, paranoid witch. He told himself this time and time again as he skirted along the edge of the island. Soil crumbled away beneath his feet and tumbled toward the cloud barrier below, but he could never follow it long enough to see if it collided or passed through. How far beneath was the surface? Could a spirit made from the soul of a goddess die from such a fall? Could it even feel pain? The blade resting against his back seemed to urge him forward, but was it mere curiosity... or defiance?

"What are you doing?" At first, Ghirahim mistook the voice for that of a human, but when he turned it was none other than his mistress slouching before him. Her skin was the same sickly color as the barrier, her arms wound around herself in her desperation for comfort.

"Oh, what am _I_ doing?" He slid a foot behind him. The arch curved over the edge as he tilted himself backwards. "I'm... enjoying the view." His mouth twitched. His stomach was sinking as though he had already jumped. "I should ask you the same question. So much for your fear of being seen."

"Everyone is asleep." Hylia shuffled forward; she was all but crawling on her knees. "Come back inside, Ghirahim."

"No." He rooted himself as firmly as he could on the leg that still met solid ground.

"What do you hope to prove? That you would rather die than serve me?"

"Will I die, goddess? Is this how your beloved plans will meet their untimely _demise_?"

Hylia noticeably flinched, though whether it was fear or a well-timed wave of pain was unclear. "I... I will not tolerate this insubordination. Wounded or not, I am still your mistress. You will return to the statue, or I will return you myself."

"Oh, very well." With a quick but unsteady motion, Ghirahim reached behind his head to free the sword from his cloak. The blade gleamed a spiteful black as it swung to point at Hylia. "Be my guest."

A golden glow enveloped the goddess. She was no longer a star, but even in her state, she was radiant enough that Ghirahim raised his free hand to shield his eyes. His chest grew tight, the sensation spreading through his arms until he felt like a statue about to crumble to pieces. His resolve curdled.

"Your Grace, I-" he stammered. His razor tongue was twisted over itself; he could almost feel the blood running down his throat. Hylia stepped forward, he stepped back, and before either of them could do more than cry out in shock, he found that his island prison was shrinking away above him. The wind tore at every bit of exposed skin it could reach, prying open his mouth and tearing the breath from his lungs while he gasped and choked in a vain effort to pull it back.

Through the pain of suffocating and the feeling of plummeting toward the unknown, Ghirahim was grinning- desperately, madly. He hugged his sword against his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited.


End file.
